Orrin

Orrin imagines the quantum blade tickles as it passes through his throat, but really he doesn’t feel anything. His vision doubles a little, dimming quickly, and then the headsman reaches up and pulls: it’s gone.

Orrin stares at the perfect copy of his head. His facial expression is stupid.

“Thus is the sentence carried out this… ah, seventh day of August, in accordance with etcetera etcetera,” says the sherriff. “Okay, pop him.”